


Carmen Fantasy

by phantomreviewer



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:05:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Chandler and Kent, in four acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carmen Fantasy

**Title:**  Carmen Fantasy  
 **Fandom:**  Whitechapel  
 **Author:**  [](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/profile)[ **phantomreviewer**](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/)  
 **Pairings/Characters:**  Chandler/Kent, Miles, Buchan, Riley, Mansell, OCs (from [this fic](http://phantomreviewer.livejournal.com/231353.html))  
 **Rating:**  PG-13  
 **Spoilers:**  Post-Series 3  
 **Disclaimer:**  ITV  
 **Warnings:**  None.  
 **A/N:**  I owed my sister fic, so she prompted me  _Chandler coming to his senses and realising that Kent has been there all along_ and the [Carmen Fantasy](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n50-c7uU5kE) is one of my favourite pieces of music, so it worked as my inspiration.  
 **Summary:**  Chandler and Kent, in four acts.  
  


_Act 1- Pianissimo_

It starts with a sigh and the heavy press of a door dividing Chandler from his team.

The faint click of the lock echoes through the almost silent office and none of the team catch each other’s eyes. They look towards the locked door though, although only two in their number would admit to doing so.

Even Miles is excluded from the physical nook of his chair in Chandler’s office, relegated to the outside looking in.

Watching the augmented order of the clean desk and flicker of a light switch turned off and on again.

Only Ed doesn’t notice the immediate change in the team dynamic, and then, that is because of the fact he so rarely strives towards the light.

But even Buchan notices eventually, pulling his attention from his archives to his leader.

And he is greeted with scorn.

“Not now Ed, it’s clearly not relevant to this investigation-”

Chandler doesn’t normally cut off his sentences in anger, instead allowing his emotions to permeate the meaning of his words. But instead he’s taken to stopping, as though he cannot understand why no one else understands him.

The team have learnt to look down when the lights flicker on and off again in Chandler’s office.

They don’t want him seeing that they care.

In the end it is Miles, who drags Chandler back from the abyss that he’d been standing on- toes skimming the dark edge of roof top and legal ribbon- as it should be.

Taking him by the arm and speaking in words that are loud enough to be heard in the archives, but no one listens in. They know that they are words meant only for Chandler.

The door to Chandler’s office is no longer oppressively closed.

Not always.

And the team start to smile at him again.

And one evening, after Miles has made a feeble excuse that Chandler sees straight through but appeases in order to avoid the disappointed look of failure in Miles’ eyes, Chandler returns to the empty office.

And it is noticeably cleaner than it had been when he’d left.

He flicks the light off, just the once, and leaves the room.

_Act 2- Allegretto_

It continues with the heavy press of silence in an empty office.

At least to Chandler’s knowledge the office is empty.

There isn’t a pressing case, no case had been pressing since the spree killings and there was the matter of a formal report to write up for Anderson.

With the team clocked off the atmosphere is tight but not stagnating, Chandler still remembers that his team is there even when they’re not.

They smile at him more now, and joke with each other when he’s around.

Chandler sometimes wants to remind them that everything has changed, except at heart he knows that it hasn’t.

He’s seen Miles voluntarily take the stairs to speak to Ed, and he knows that things can’t go backwards.

They move forwards.

He must move forwards.

When he looks at the half written report he sees blood splattered clothes and glass where glass shouldn’t be.

He hangs his head, and allows his hands to catch it mid-slump.

The lights are still on in the main office as he walks through it, attempting to find fresh air in central London.

He doesn’t switch them off, after all he is coming back.

They are still on when he renters the officer, breathing calmed.

There is a mug resting on his desk, next to his desk tidy, in the place that it should be, should there be a mug there at all.

It’s green tea, and not yet starting to cool although the office is as he left it.

Except that isn’t quite the truth, as the helmet underneath Kent’s desk has vanished, along with the keys and phone from on top of it.

Chandler spares a thought for what Kent must have been working on before he steps back into his own office.

Sitting down he nudges a pen back so that it is perpendicular to the line of his desk and reaches for the mug.

He frowns, small and thoughtful between the eyes as he drinks.

If there would be anyone in the office to see, he thinks he would have smiled.

_Act 3- Crescendo_

It becomes clear with the sharp glint of stainless steel.

The darkness doesn’t look as though it should contain enough light to shimmer on a knife edge, however the whole team can see its deadly bite, just waiting to dig into soft flesh.

It’s their first case working together since everything started to fall apart and their suspect has given them the slip through the narrow passageways and archways that hark Whitechapel back to the days of gas street lighting.

There is a repetitive order to the pounding of feet on the rain slicked streets, doing what they all knew.

A good team that knew how to work together.

Unfortunately their criminal knew how to work well too, and it was always easier to be working alone.

Regardless of this the team works as a pack, with the DCs taking one wing of the search and Mile sand Chandler the other.

So when there are three possible exits to be followed it opens up the perfect opportunity for an ambush to be made and for a strike to be acted upon.

With Kent standing in the niche between doorway and chimney breast there was no opportunity to duck away from their suspect, complete with knife in tow.

Mansell and Riley with hand extended in the universal gesture of horror and assurance can do nothing but wait, trusting Kent’s instincts and the speed of their superiors.

Kent’s words are soft through the faint gasps of panicked breath in attempting to talk the knife away from his throat.

The proof that their suspect is guilty, is quite literally in his hands. Hovering over the lines of his neck.

And then there are uniforms, and the twisting of an arm behind the suspect’s back and with that movement the splattering of blood and a cut off swear word.

Kent is cradling his left hand within his right, with blood tricking between the gaps of his fingers. His face is drawn up in a pained frowned and he bites his lip as he peels his fingers away from the wound, one at a time.

“You alright lad?”

Miles’ voice is gruff yet insistent, and he peers forward at the knick made by the knife as the uniforms escort the guilty party away with Mansell following, reading the man his rights.

Riley looks up from where she is playing the bloodied knife into an evidence bag.

They have two detectives as witness to the situation, that is more than enough evidence for any court.

“Had worse Skip.”

Riley stands, passing the evidence bag to Miles with a sharp nod, her hand steers Kent back through the building that they had come.

  
“You need to get that looked at Em, I don’t care what you say”

Her voice fades out to nothing, and Miles is turning to catch Chandler’s eye.

Chandler nods and follows his sergeant out of the newly made crime scene thinking of harsh words, nights alone in terrorised offices, sharp suits and even sharper blades.

Yes. Kent has had worse injuries.

_Act 4- Maestoso_

It ends with feet pressing their world-weary tread into London’s pavements.

Night is hanging in the periphery of the sky, just waiting for the sun to hide behind the London skyline.

For once there is no intended destination, and Chandler is simply walking, hoping to be swept up in the evening crowds and to be able to think clearly.

It’s nearly happened so many times now.

A figure jostles into him from behind and he turns, with half a frown on his face, but before he can begin to reprimand the young woman, she is pulled away from him, with a “sorry, had a bit too much to drink” from a man who is clearly her partner.

The young man is supporting her by the shoulders  when the women turns her head to shout to their companion.

“Come on Em.”

Then Kent is standing before him.

For some reason it surprises Chandler that he’s not wearing his suit. If he’s honest with himself it surprises him that he should encounter Kent on the streets that their lives revolve around.

“Sir?”

“Kent, you’re out with your friends?”

“Flatmates.”

The brief pause is broken by the giggling of the girl, and the muffled hushes of her boyfriend.

“Do you need anything sir?”

The words hang in the early evening air, jostled, but unscathed by the noise of London streaming past them.

Chandler sighs, low and quiet and understanding.

“Oh.”

Kent is waiting, watching him for his reaction, and Chandler realises that he always has done.

The weight of the world is hanging in the slump of Kent’s shoulders, but it’s a weight that the younger man has come to bear easily, and it’s a burden that wasn’t even his to take.

Chandler’s slow exhalation  to compose himself has lasted beyond moments and is it the biting temperature of the supposedly mild evening that cause Kent to nuzzle his chin into his collar, as though cold?

“Sir?”

There is a café on the opposite side of the road, and Chandler thinks that he ought to be seated for the conversation that he knows must follow.

“Yes. A word, if you don’t mind?”

He gestures to the café with a sharp nod of his head.

Kent smiles, content in the waning light.

“Louise, Tom, Go on ahead, I’ll catch you guys up. The Indo right?”

Chandler can’t not hear the comments that Kent’s flatmates make, and although Kent apologises, face pink from the wind and from what Chandler supposes to be shame, Chandler doesn’t register it with total offense.

The café is warm, and the mugs of tea and coffee resting in the grip of Chandler and Kent respectively cause their hands to be almost scolding.

Neither of them lessens their grip, until Chandler does, lacing his fingers together on the table, waiting for the right moment to speak.

In the end it starts as simply as it ended.

“Thank you.”

Kent averts his eyes.

His hands are still holding residual heat from his mug when he places one on top of Kent’s own.

He allows his lips to brush against Kent’s own, the faint flavour of bitterness becoming subdued under Kent’s smile.

**_dal segno al fine_ **


End file.
